


When It Comes To Loving You

by ghettoassenglishman



Series: Take my hand--Take My Whole life too [23]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Comfort Reading, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Future Fic, I needed to write this, Idiots in Love, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Phone Calls & Telephones, still trying to forget what happened ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-22 03:28:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3713161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghettoassenglishman/pseuds/ghettoassenglishman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>" “Just fucking take it that I care, okay?” Ian laughs, seriously. “You better be here in the morning, dumb-ass.” The redhead yawns, his voice cracking against the speaker of the phone.</p><p>“I'll be there.” Mickey agrees, like every time Ian rings him. "</p><p>13 ways Ian shows Mickey he loves him - actions always speak louder than words</p>
            </blockquote>





	When It Comes To Loving You

**Author's Note:**

> I needed this... like really needed this... so no judge me - I wanted to do a Ian version of "his kisses" so I did this ... ok
> 
> prompt me: im-an-angel-y0u-ass.tumblr.com 
> 
> me no bite

 

_**When he listens to you...** _

 

“Man, you _never_ guess what happened on our run today..” Mickey shouts as he slams the front door closed, he walks past Ian in the kitchen and grabs the nearest beer. “I'm talking full-blown fucked up business, like nearly-got-fucking-shot business.” 

 

Ian nods in assurance, sitting down, ready for the dragged story to continue. Despite the fact the stories all remained the same, he loved watching Mickey tell them, he loved watching the brunette get all passionate about how “fucked up” the runs got each time. “You're dying to tell me, Mick. Just fucking tell me.” 

 

Mickey flips him off. “Don't say that shit if you don't want to hear the story, remember last time?” He raises his eyebrow, in which Ian shrugs in retaliation. “You fell asleep when I was talking, asshole. You talk all the fucking time but I don't nod off like some grandpa, do I?” In a huff he grabs his beer, heading towards his bedroom, before Ian grips at his wrist, pulling him back. 

 

“Ay, I wanna hear the story.” Ian speaks firmly, trying to drill it into Mickey that he really-fucking loved watching him story tell. Mickey gives him a unsure look, in disbelief. “I do, Mick. Can you just tell me about how Iggy fucked up again, or how you fell on your ass trying to jump from that truck?” 

 

“You heard that?” Mickey tilts his head, knowing he had told Ian that story the day the kid nodded off against the couch. 

 

Ian nods, smugly, he pulls Mickey to his lap. “I listen to everything you say,  _ even  _ when I'm asleep.” 

 

“Sappy fuck.” Mickey whispers, forgetting the story he was about to tell, he brings Ian's lips to his. 

 

_**When he makes you feel safe...** _

 

“Ian.” Mickey whispers, turning from his spot of little spoon to face the redhead. Ian shifts, wiping his face against the pillow they were sharing, he doesn't budge much, but when a flash of lightning hits through the window, Mickey's pleads are more urgent. “ _Ian,_ wake the fuck up.”

 

Mickey jolts as another light slashes through the room, his body curling more into Ian's warmth, the only thing that was keeping him grounded. Ian nuzzles further, causing Mickey to yelp internally and push himself to shove Ian awake. “Ian, _wake_ the fuck up – fucking-”

 

“Mickey...-” Ian groans, rubbing his hand against his droopy eyes. “What's...why..you okay?” He notices Mickey shaking against the sheets, his plaid position, closer to his body. A shed of lightning flashes through the room and Mickey yelps in return, his hands flinching up to shield his face. Ian's speechless, unsure of what to do, before he gets it. He always gets it.

 

Silently, he pulls Mickey towards his chest. “Hey, its alright. You're alright.” He whispers, his large limbs wrapping around Mickey's back like his own octopus. Mickey had never been more thankful, Ian hadn't asked any questions he just _knew,_ he hadn't teased or pestered him, he just made him feel safe. That was something he could get used to, for sure.

 

_**When he holds you while you're sleeping … even if you hate it...** _

 

“Gallagher, we ain't fucking _spooning_ in this heat. I'm hot as balls, and you sweat like balls, so no sticking to me tonight.” As much as Mickey pretended to hate Ian's arms around him, this night – the apparent hottest day of the year – he wasn't getting stuck to the sheets. He lies on his back, the blanket kicked at their feet. 

 

Ian shrugs, pout against his lips, he turns to his side – away from Mickey – with no snark back, he closes his eyes to go to sleep. As much as Mickey felt guilty, he was too hot, too tired, to even start an argument. He turns to his side, facing the door, they both fall asleep in silence, only the fan buzzing in the background. 

 

Later that night, Mickey wakes up with a sweat on his back. Turning, sleepily, he smiles at the figure wrapped around him. He knew, no matter what, that Ian would always curl into him in the night. It was their  _thing._ Despite the fact that the room was like a sauna,  _and_ Ian was his own heater, Mickey didn't move, or push Ian to move. Even if he did hate the sweat forming against his back, and the fact Ian's hands were stuck to his chest, he felt too wrapped up to move – too wrapped up in Ian Gallagher.

 

_**When he makes sure you get home safe...** _

 

Mickey rounds the block towards the Milkovich house when he feels his back pocket buzz. Ian always made sure that Mickey got home okay from drug runs, it was a ritual thing when Ian had to stay at home – for family shit, that he _never_ saw the point in-. Mickey sighs, pulling out his phone and pressing it to his ear. “Gallagher” His face breaks into a smile, it was hard to control sometimes.

 

“Hey, Mick. You home yet?” Ian sounded concerned, as usual, his voice hushed – Mickey knew instantly that the kid had stayed up all night just to make sure he knew Mickey got home safe.

 

Huffing out a laugh, Mickey replies, “I'm fine, you dick, I can get home without being mugged. Unless, you know, Frank and his jedi tricks take me out.” Mickey flicks his fag butt into the grid by his feet, nearing towards the house, he stops at the bottom of the steps.

 

Ian laughs against the line. “Don't joke, I just want to make sure you're okay.”

 

Mickey groans, still smiling, he rubs at his forehead – that's merely covered by his hat. “I'm pretty fucking fine, Gallagher. I don't need someone to babysit me when I'm walking home.” He sees Svetlana in the window, he gives off a slight nod and goes back to talking to Ian.

 

“Just fucking take it that I care, okay?” Ian laughs, seriously. “You better be here in the morning, dumb-ass.” The redhead yawns, his voice cracking against the speaker of the phone.

 

“I'll be there.” Mickey agrees, like every time Ian rings him.

 

_**When he makes you dinner after a bad day...** _

 

Mickey wants to die. He had the worst day, in the worlds worst of days, and he really wanted to fucking sleep, and just relax in the arms of his boyfriend. Once he steps through the front door, his nose hits the smell of pasta, and some sweet chilli sauce, that he knows _only_ Ian makes. His heart warms, wondering how the _hell_ Ian knew him so well. Chucking his coat off, he walks over to the kitchen, where the redhead is peacefully stirring around the pasta in the pan.

 

Mickey hums, his anger washing away in the mist of the sight of Ian cooking. Slowly, he wraps his arms around Ian's waist, kissing against the redheads exposed shoulder. “What you doing?” He asks, wondering how his anger could fuck off in the space of a couple seconds.

“Cooking, I know you had a bad day, can't I make you feel better?” Ian smirks, stirring the pasta around the pan, he turns his head to capture Mickey's lips with his own. “Plus, I really wanted pasta, and I _know_ its your favourite.”

 

Mickey squints, resting his head against Ian's arm. “It's not my fucking favourite.”

 

“ _Yes,_ it is. You ate like three bowls of this the other night, don't even _deny_ it. I heard you trying to get some more in the middle of night-” He giggles to himself, already feeling Mickey's glare. “I have ears like...like- what animal can hear good again?”

 

“Not you, because you heard jack-shit.” Mickey answers defensively, his hands finding themselves underneath the fabric of his shirt. “Now bowl me up that pasta, bitch.” He tells him, softly. He couldn't be more thankful for Ian's pasta making skills.

 

_**When he thinks your annoying habits are cute...** _

They are led on their sides, facing eachother, they weren't sure how they got there, but there wasn't any effort to move. Ian's hand finds its way to Mickey's chin, stroking against the rough stubble forming against it. “You sniffle in your sleep.” He randomly states.

 

“No I fucking don't.” Mickey eyes him narrowly, his tone defensive. “You fucking _snore.”_

 

Ian shakes his head, a grin placed on his lips – because he knew he  _had_ Mickey. “You do.” His hands roams lower, planting itself against Mickey's collarbone. “Usually you do it when you're too hot or whenever you're stressed. But then, I realised you don't do it when you sleep on my chest. ” 

 

“I don't fucking _sniffle.”_ Mickey grunts, trying to hide his face in the blanket that’s covering them. He really needed a cigarette but the warmth they are surrounded in is telling him otherwise. Ian tilts his head, eyes rolling at Mickey's subtle blush. 

 

“Don't worry about it, Mick.” Ian pulls at the blanket, surrendering once Mickey's hands flew out. “I think its really fucking cute, like _badass_ cute. You can't have a thug without his sniffles.” He giggles, pulling Mickey closer to his chest. 

 

Mickey scrunches his brow, trying to flip him off but failed due to their closeness. “Jesus fucking christ, cute is  _worse.”_ He pinches the skin at the top of Ian's arm, licking his lips habitually.

 

“I don't give a shit, its still cute, and I love it.” Ian makes his point, kissing the tip of Mickey's nose. 

_**When he takes care of your needs...** _

 

“Mick?” Ian calls out through the house, there is no answer and the worry immediately starts to kick in. He tilts his head to Iggy, who just shrugs and points towards his and Mickey's bedroom. “Hey, Mick what are you-” He pushes open the bathroom door and finds the brunette curled around the toilet, his hands shaking against the bowl.

 

“Shit.” Ian mutters, causing Mickey to turn against the toilet. The older boy looks pale, _too_ pale, his hair is all sweaty, stuck against his face, his grey shirt is soaked – full of sweat from pouring out his stomachs contents into the toilet. “ _No,_ get away.” Mickey tries to shove him away, his hand missing it destination and flying through the air, hopelessly.

 

“You scared I'll see you looking like shit? Please bitch, I've seen you in the morning.” Ian teases, earning a weak slap from his boyfriend. Shaking his head, he grabs the empty glass from beside Mickey's feet and fills it up with water from the sink. “Here, drink this-” Mickey shakes his head, but Ian persists. “ _No,_ drink it, it'll make you feel better.” 

 

“I don't-t need your help, Gallagh-” Mickey breathes out before he pukes back into the bowl. 

 

“Stop being a stubborn ass and let me take care of you.” Ian demands, rubbing his hand against Mickey's back, slowly he lifts Mickey's slumped head up, putting the glass to his lips. Mickey lightly grunts against the rim of the glass, giving in – he could always chip at Ian in the morning, even if he secretly loved it.

 

**_When he holds your hand..._ **

 

“Your hands are so fucking small.” Ian chuckles, bringing Mickey's hand up for inspection. The older boy tries to pull away, but Ian grabs it – lining it up to his own. “Seriously, look how _small_ they are, so fucking _cute.”_

 

Mickey pulls his hand back. “They are not small, your hands just belong to a giant. Fucking BFG over there.” He consciously looks at his hands in his lap – his hands were not small, were they? Ian catches his insecurity, he huffs and pulls Mickey's hands back. 

 

“I didn't say I fucking hated it, asshole. I actually really love your hands.” Ian threads his fingers through Mickey's, some-how they always lined up perfectly and Mickey was still trying to work out how that was. Ian brings his knuckles to his lips. “Especially these.” Mickey watches, with wide eyes, as Ian proceeds to kiss each letter inked against his skin. 

 

_**When he does anything to make it up to you, after a big fight...** _

 

“I'm sorry.” Ian whispers from the doorway of their bedroom. They had just had a huge fight over the old fucks _still_ trying to get their hands all over Ian. Ian had full-blown coxed Mickey out, calling him out on the past – something that Mickey hated bringing up. It had been an hour since they talked, Mickey had hid in their room, wallowing in his own self pity, when Ian come back – a tray of pizza bagels in his hands.

 

“I know.” Mickey nods, still not looking in Ian's direction. “Doesn't make me less angry.” He picks at the skin of his nails, his gaze pushing itself not to turn towards Ian, he knew that fuck would be giving him the puppy-dog eyes that always fucking got him.

 

Ian slowly steps through. “I made pizza bagels.” His voice sweet, like a little kid in pre-school, he gently places them onto the bed, waiting for Mickey's reaction. It was a question of grunts or eruption, Ian wasn't yet prepared for either.

 

“What did you do to them, man?” Mickey eyes him narrowly, flipping one of the pizza bagels over. “You fucking poison them?” He finally looks up to the redhead, not questioning the sorrowful look plastered over his face. _Fucking puppy-dog eyes._

 

Ian tilts his head, scoffing. “Now, why would I do that?” He sits on the edge of the bed, not sure if Mickey wants him close yet. “I've got to eat them too, y'know.” Mickey snorts, causing Ian to break out with an innocent smile.

 

“Fucking idiot.” Mickey utters, moving to the side to let Ian sit by him. The redhead complies, grabbing his own pizza bagel. “You better not eat all of them, firecrotch, you made them for _me.”_ Ian purposely shoves his whole into his mouth. Mickey licks his lips, he doesn't know how he can't stay mad at Gallagher, but he sure knows what he can do with that mouth.

 

_**When you're the last person he texts...** _

 

Mickey's head hits the pillow, his eyes just closing as soon as the room is illuminated by the light of his phone. Squinting he pats his hand against the side-table to grab the source of light, looking directly to the screen was like looking straight into the sun – and it was all Gallagher's fault. 

 

Despite his near blindness, he smiles at the name appearing through the text; 

 

**From: Gallagher:** _ Night, Mick. Thought I'd text u before I went to sleep, missing you and all that shit. Fiona nearly burnt my ass for not bringing you, but I covered for your lasy-ass. I kinda really fucking like you so don't you dare bite my head off for waking u up, u love it.  _

 

Mickey bites his lip, trying to hold back the grin on his face that Ian would  _ always  _ give him. He hesitates to text back – Maybe Ian would just assume he was asleep, or Mickey just didn't want to keep Ian up? Seriously, he could feel the sappiness creeping in his bones. Fucking Gallagher's. 

 

**To Gallagher:** _ You little creep, see u tomorrow when I beat ur ass.... I kinda like u too, mostly because u make me those hot pancakes not because u text me at the ass-crack of dawn _

 

The reply was back instant, it was obvious Ian was waiting for a reply. 

 

**From Gallagher :** _ Go to sleep asshole don't want u missing ur beauty sleep _

 

**To Gallagher:** _ Fuck u _

 

**From Gallagher:** _ Yeah love u too bone head _

 

_**When he stands up for you...** _

 

They were sat in the alibi, something they tried to avoid most times due to Ian's med's – but the redhead insisted that he wouldn't go all weird if he had _one_ beer, so Mickey accepted, in the case that they don't go over board. They were sat against the bar, quietly talking about something merely irrelevant to what was going on around them.

 

Until - “Fucking faggot, wonder what Terry would do if he saw his _son_ hanging it out as a queer. Might even finish the job myself.” One of the local drunks calls out from his booth at the back, Mickey must of blanked it out, but Ian sure heard it. Gritting his teeth, his fists clench against the top of the bar, something Mickey _did_ see.

 

“You wanna say that again, you fucking prick?” Ian leaps up, pushing his stool to the floor, he storms over to the booth, hands slamming down against the table. The large drunk steps up, knocking a couple glasses on the table. “What you going to do about it, _queer?”_ Ian raises his fist to punch the guy out when he feels a hand dart out and catch his wrist.

 

“Just leave it, Ian.” He hears Mickey's voice behind him, he doesn't loosen his clenched fist though. “ _Ian.”_ Mickey's voice turns from a plead to a demand, Ian releases himself, teeth bashing together he turns from the group of fuckers, he really wanted to kill. “I said leave it, I'll sort this fuckers out in my own time, you don't need to do that shit.” He begins to push Ian back to the bar, sending a glare towards the group laughing.

“What the fuck was that about?” Mickey finally asks, when they get back to the bar.

 

Ian unclenches his fists, head in his hands. “They were saying shit about you Mick, you want me to just sit here and let them say that?” He grabs his beer, but Mickey pulls it away from him.

 

“I'm flattered about your act of chivalry, man, but I can fight my own battles.” Mickey sternly tells him, one hand slipping to the small of Ian's back. Ian scoffs, trying to grab back his drink – which Mickey allows, finally.

 

“I'm impressed by your self-confidence, but I'm helping you fight them battles whether you like it or not.” Ian blurts, nudging Mickey's side as he shakes his head around the glass. Mickey looks towards Ian, he had nearly forgotten about _all_ the battles Ian had already fought for him, with him, but pulling him in for a kiss told him _thankyou._

 

**_When he stays close to you..._ **

 

“This movie fucking sucks.” Mickey complains from his laid down position against Ian's legs, both their bodies taking up the full length of the couch. “Like _Sharknado_ bad.” They had put on a scary movie, something called _Dead Silence. -_ Or whatever Mickey thought it was called, he would not like Ian have the indication that he really, like _really,_ hated dolls. At this point, he was really fucking glad Ian was a clingy basturd, because if he wasn't this close Mickey would totally lose his shit.

 

Ian snorts, his hand threading through Mickey's hair. “Bitch please, you've jumped at every scene so far, stop trying to cool it off Mr-I-think-horror-movies-are-bullshit.” His freehand greets Mickey's hip and pulls him up further on his chest. 

 

“It is bullshi- Oh _Holy shit!”_ Mickey yelps, hiding his face in his hands – he even tries to peep through his fingers, but _fuck,_ those dolls were creepy. Ian's laughing underneath him, sucking in breaths each-time Mickey sent him a middle finger or a sharp glare. By the end of the movie, Mickey had completely turned from the screen and relied on the sounds to jump. 

 

“Mick...” 

 

“What the fuck do you want?” Mickey answers, grumbling through his shock of a film. 

 

“Turn the television off.” Ian whines, whimpering as his pleads to grab for the remote. Mickey still doesn't turn, his elbow causing him cramp in his side from where it was laid below him. “You fucking do it, I ain't your slave.” Mickey bites back, scooting closer to the back of the couch. 

 

“Nah, I'll stay right here.” Ian hums, appreciatively. “Right _here,_ where I can be close to you.” The redheads arms wrap around him, the heat from his skin sending Mickey ultimate shocks through his body. 

 

Mickey wipes his face, sleepily against Ian's shirt. “Cut out the cheesy bullshit and turn it off.” Really, he just wanted to make sure no dolls were present, and for once he wanted the redhead not to pull at his leg and scare the shit out of him. Ian moans in frustration, leaning struggling to grasp the remote. Once he has it, he turns it off, but he makes no attempt to move. 

 

That night they end up sleeping on the couch, Ian's hand muffled in Mickey's messy locks, while Mickey nuzzled into the crook of Ian's arm. It felt safe atleast, just to be close to the fucker.

 

_**When he remembers what you say...** _

 

“Did you mean what you said?” Ian randomly blurts out, across from Mickey on the kitchen table. They both are engrossed with pancakes, in which Ian _always_ brought something deep to the table. Sometimes literally. 

 

“When I said what?” Mickey asks, confused, he spoke all the fucking time – which time was Ian referring too? Last night, when he had described the logistics of anal beads, a week back when he tried to teach Ian how to bowl for the first time – or the time when he told Ian his ass was pretty fucking hot. 

 

Ian rests his face against his palm. “ _That_ day – that we hate fucking talking about.” Mickey knows what day Ian was referring too – it was the day Ian had broken it off, it was the day he had nearly ended it  _all,_ but it was the same day that Mickey made sure it wouldn't be over, that it would  _never_ be over for as-long as he lived. 

 

“Of course I fucking did, wouldn't have said it otherwise?” He speaks as if its the stupidest question, _ever_ to be asked – because, fuck – He did love Ian Gallagher. 

 

“Through sickness and through health?” Ian asks, his eyes widening, a smile growing on his lips that Mickey knew was genuine. “You mean that too?” 

 

Mickey shrugs, trying to play it off, but he knew that never worked. “How do you even remember that shit? When was that, like a  _year_ ago?” He sips at his coffee, suddenly needing that boost now all the personal shit came out. 

 

“I just do. I wouldn't forget shit like that.” Ian replies quietly, looking down at his hands nervously. “I just, I, uh, guess -” He stutters, finding it hard to get his words out – which was pretty fucking rare for Ian Gallagher. 

 

“Spit it out, Gallagher.” Mickey already knows what Ian's going to say. 

 

Ian gives him a  _thankyou_ in a smile. “I just – I really  _fucking_ love you, Mickey Milkovich. I don't know why I didn't tell you sooner.” His dopey grin makes the waves crash, happily, in Mickey's mind – his whole body tingling as it did the first day Ian came barging in with a god-damn tire iron. 

 

“Thank fuck for that, if this was a one-sided relationship It'd be pretty fucking awkward.” Mickey grins, leaning across the table to hold Ian's face in his hands. “I don't give a shit how long it took you to say it, I already fucking knew.” 

 

                                                                                            … _ **It means that he really fucking loves you.**_


End file.
